


Fresh to Death (or: How Sam Winchester Found Himself On Long Roads)

by softgrungeprophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Car Accidents, Gratuitous Smut, Light Angst, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Road Trips, Secrets, Sex in a Car, Sexual Content, Stranger Sex, Switching, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-11-18
Packaged: 2018-01-01 23:06:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softgrungeprophet/pseuds/softgrungeprophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Winchester meets Lucifer in a dark bar, and begins to travel with him. Sex and a roadtrip to the ocean. Human AU. Sam is around 23-25ish and Lucifer is about 39 or 40.<br/><a href="http://8tracks.com/glass-jars/fresh-to-death">Playlist.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fresh to Death

**Author's Note:**

> Lucifer and Sam have sex a lot, in this. Sorta PWP but also sorta not. Not super graphic but........ still sex. Really vague sex, mostly.

He walked into the room in a thin white t-shirt and threadbare, dark blue jeans, with scuffed boots the color of damp soil on his feet and a toothpick clamped between his teeth. The scars across his face glinted in the yellow light from the bar's lamps. He held, in one calloused hand, a vanilla lemon drop with condensation beading the curve of the cocktail glass. When he glanced over at Sam his eyes burned a cold blue like the noon sky in January.

Sam held his breath.

The man drifted closer, nearer and nearer until the toes of his boots brushed Sam's. He blinked slow and lazy like a cat. Smiled. Or maybe leered. It held a predatory undertone that sent shivers up Sam's sides.

"You must be Sam," the man purred. "I'm Lucifer."

Sam laughed.

Lucifer did not laugh, nor did his expression change.

Sam stilled and said nothing. But he took Lucifer's proffered hand and shook. His hands were steady and cold and rough and broad. His fingers were shorter and his palm wider than Sam's. Sam drew away a step, avoiding Lucifer's chill gaze as best he could. He felt as though he was being placed on display, naked and laid open, under those eyes. Sensed their pressure on his skin even as he looked away.

Lucifer spoke again, finally. "You can call me Luce, if you let me take you on a ride."

Sam said, "Okay."

...

"Luce," The name felt strange behind Sam's teeth, but he said it again, quietly. Lucifer—this stranger with frozen fingertips—licked into Sam's mouth as the denim of their jeans scraped together. Sam shuddered. Luce's tongue was split, forked like a snake's, and Sam wondered if it was purposeful or something else. In any case, the way Lucifer utilized it as he kissed him made Sam unexpectedly hot under his skin.

Lucifer pushed him down against the white sheets and the pile of pillows the color of dried blood. "You are beautiful." His voice rumbled in his chest, low and muffled.

Sam laughed, and it came out a little more breathless than he would have liked.

Lucifer shook his head. "It's true. " As he pushed Sam's shirt up, he fastened his mouth on the taller man's throat, all hunger and reverence with careful fingers dancing over Sam's ribs. Sam breathed harshly through his nose and his hands came up to settle on the flare of Lucifer's shoulder blades. He murmured something unintelligible, pulling him closer so their chests touched. The fabric of Lucifer's shirt was cool and soft. His breath smelled like vanilla and citrus. (A little flowery, aromatic, and sweet.)

...

A 1975 Chevrolet Monte Carlo stood parked and waiting beside the sidewalk. Lucifer leaned on the open driver's door as he watched Sam make his ginger way down the steps that sided the apartment building. He let out a long wolf-whistle, tapping the car's roof with one blunt finger. Sam shot him an annoyed yet amused look. He nearly tripped on the curb, arms full of his stuff, but caught himself at the last minute before shoving his belongings into the trunk and slamming it shut with a satisfying bang.

"You have a family, pretty boy?" Lucifer dropped into the car and closed his door firmly. "Or are you leaving behind nothing more than that apartment?" He adjusted the lay of his t-shirt, and buckled his seatbelt, and shot a glance to his right as Sam sat down on the passenger side.

Sam shrugged, clearly uncomfortable. "My dad kicked me out." He slid down in the seat. "Mom died a long time ago. Brother's too subservient to contact me." The moonlight sparked off his eyes when he shook his head, and Lucifer frowned.

"I've been through something similar," he muttered, and started the car. It coughed and then growled low and hoarse. He swung it out onto the empty road and before Sam could respond, twisted the volume knob on the radio.

The soft strains of Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven" crackled from the speakers.

Sam took the hint.

...

A thick cloud of pale steam belched from the open hood of the bone-white '75 Monte Carlo, and Lucifer swore under his breath. He waved the hot air away from his face. In the passenger seat, Sam fidgeted, chewing on his thumbnail. The cream-colored rosary wrapped around Lucifer's right wrist and palm glinted in the sunlight as Lucifer headed around the back of the car to the open trunk. Sam slid out of the car and followed him, watching the way his scarred hands sifted through their belongings until they alighted on the blue jug of antifreeze and coolant Lucifer had been looking for. His rosary clinked against the plastic as he handed it off to Sam, and Sam rolled his eyes.

"Why can't you just check the coolant and all the other crap on a regular basis, instead of waiting for the car to overheat?" Sam set the jug on the asphalt—no way in hell was he going to top off a hot engine. "Also, where's the goddamn funnel? Do you even have a funnel?" He knew next to nothing about this man, and yet there he was... bickering about car upkeep. (Dean would have thrown a fit at the poor state of the pale old Chevy.)

Lucifer slammed the trunk shut and tossed a plastic funnel at Sam with a slow smirk. "I'm lazy, Sam." He made his way back around the car, tugging the driver's side door open and sitting down in his seat. "Sloth is a fundamental part of my being."

Sam glared at him. Lucifer just stared, eyes hooded, contemplative and cat-like in the hot sunlight of the Utah summer. The heat haze on the road made slick little blurs. Sam turned away to glower off at the far horizon. A quail peeped at him from the brush. His expression softened as he watched the bird twitch around searching for bugs, its little feather curl bobbing in time with its head.

They spent a while beside the road, with the sun high overhead. Eventually, Lucifer slipped out onto the hot pavement and moved to twine his arms around Sam. Sam leaned into him. He hummed in the back of his throat, as Lucifer pressed cold kisses to the back of his neck, pushing Sam's long hair out of the way with one hand. Lucifer's tongue briefly darted out against Sam's skin, and Sam shivered. Lucifer's other hand drifted south, ponderous and light. Questing.

Sam grabbed his wrist.

"Wait until we get somewhere with a bed."

Lucifer chuckled against Sam's neck. "You're so proper." He drew back, and Sam shrugged at the loss of his radiant chill. "I like that in a boy, but..." Lucifer eyed him up and down. "Sometimes it's okay to be a little dirty."

"Well, I like being clean." Sam tried to ignore the burn of the other man's eyes over his spine.

Lucifer laughed loud and smooth and deep.

...

Lucifer uncoiled his rosary—pearly beads and bronze crucifix—from his wrist. It briefly dangled from his fingers, catching at the thin bar of sunlight sneaking in through the thin motel room curtains, and he leaned forward to slip it around Sam's neck, so that it hung across his bare chest. He kissed the cross and the hollow at Sam's throat. Sam cupped the back of Lucifer's skull, sliding down on the bed and tugging until their mouths met.

He let out a pleased hum.

The lights were off in the room, but it didn't matter. The light, at three in the afternoon on a summer's day, was just right to send golden shadows across the starched sheets and white walls. It was warm, and pleasant, and the air conditioner buzzed while Lucifer explored every tanned inch of Sam's skin with his mouth. Sam tangled his fingers loosely in Lucifer's short hair—his bangs were just the right length to grip and muss.

Sam shivered. He felt almost too warm, but it wasn't unpleasant, and goosebumps lined his arms and legs where the chill air from the A/C drifted, and where Lucifer touched him with under-heated palms. Touched him like... like Sam was his idol, his religion, his faith. And maybe that was blasphemous for Sam to think, especially with a rosary's beads sliding smooth and warm over the skin of his throat as the crucifix fell onto the sheets, but that was the sense Lucifer gave him. A sense of worship. He'd never felt that with another person before.

With the gust of Lucifer's breath along the inside of his thigh, Sam's hands fell to his sides, resting on the jade-green blanket rumpled beneath them. He made high, shallow noses in the back of his throat, and turned his face into the dim sunlight, to feel the soft slide of the bed sheets against his cheek, and took up handfuls of the fabric between long fingers. The pillows lay ignored against the headboard.

Lucifer smiled, and hummed. Brushed his fingertips across Sam's hipbones and belly and legs.

Sam gasped.

The rosary felt heavy and tight around his throat.

...

Of all the chairs Sam had ever sat in, this one probably topped the list of shitty places to rest one's ass. He shifted uncomfortably as he scooped cheap granola and soggy fruit and too-sweet vanilla yogurt into his mouth. Mumbled, "What the hell are you eating, Luce?"

Lucifer paused to look at Sam, and cracked a grin. "A double bacon cheeseburger with extra mayonnaise, and... I think a key lime flavored milk shake." He shrugged. "I just kinda got what the man in front of me ordered."

"Dude," Sam rolled his eyes. "For one thing, that's nasty. For another, I hope you don't mean you stole it."

Rather than respond with words, Lucifer took a huge bite of his burger and stared at Sam while they ate outside of the Starbucks. He stretched out his legs so they tangled with Sam's and Sam snorted. But he didn't pull away.

When Lucifer got around to sipping from his slowly melting key lime pie milkshake, he made an offended noise and his face scrunched up as if he'd been personally insulted by the drink's existence. "Disgusting." He shoved it toward Sam. Sam pursed his lips.

"I don't want it. Throw it away." Sam stirred his parfait around in its little plastic cup. It was getting to the consistency of oatmeal—also known as the state at which it began to make him want to puke. He snapped the lid on. "You know what, I'll toss it." He stood, snatching up both cups, and wandered to the nearest trash can, chucking them in with a grimace.

Lucifer watched him walk with heavy-lidded eyes, the wrapper of his burger crumpled up in a red ball on the round wrought iron table. He walked his fingers along the edge of the tabletop as Sam sat down, and grasped Sam's hand, pulling his arm close so he could press his cold lips to the skin on the inside of Sam's wrist. He dropped several more kisses up Sam's arm, then pulled away completely. He snapped his fingers at Sam to follow him, and they returned to the Monte Carlo. The vinyl upholstery and seatbelts were almost hot enough to burn.

The engine grumbled appreciatively.

Lucifer shot Sam a dark, predatory look, with the gearshift hot under his bead-wrapped palm. The radio buzzed to life on an oldies station. He jolted out into traffic with all four windows down to compensate for the busted air conditioning. Elvis Presley's voice filled the car.

_Ooh, ooh, ooh,_  
 _I feel my temperature rising_  
 _Help me, I'm flaming_  
 _I must be a hundred and nine_  
 _Burning, burning, burning_  
 _And nothing can cool me_  
 _I just might turn into smoke_  
 _But I feel fine_  
  
 _Cause your kisses lift me higher_  
 _Like a sweet song of a choir_  
 _And you light my morning sky_  
 _With burning love_

...

"Sam," Lucifer reached out.

"Dean?" Sam flinched awake with a sharp intake of breath, disoriented. He looked around and realized he was in the car. Sighed. "Sorry—what is it, Luce?" He rubbed his face. "Is something wrong?"

Lucifer shook his head, frowning , and only raised his hand to point out the passenger window. Sam looked, until he saw what he was meant to. The burnt orange light of sunrise filtering through the half-shattered rose window of an abandoned clapboard chapel. Bars of violet fell from what intact pieces of glass remained, and stained the dead grass below. Sam held his breath. A deer and two fawns stood in the shadows cast by the church, grazing. The mother raised her head, with her long curved neck. Big eyes and long lashes, ears flicking around, tail twitching.

And then they bounded away.

Sam's breath came out in a whisper as he leaned back in the seat. Lucifer's hand rested on his side, thumb moving up and down against the cotton of his shirt, under his jacket. Sam leaned into his touch. And when Lucifer's other hand came up to push his hair back from his face, he let a soft smile overtake his mouth.

He spoke softly. "Did you pull over just to show me that?"

"No." Lucifer kissed him. "I pulled over to piss in the bushes and take a nap."

A sharp bark of laughter escaped Sam's mouth, and Lucifer grinned against his lips. He slid along the bench seat until he could hook his knees on either side of Sam, settling in his lap, sucking kisses down Sam's neck. Sam slid forward and tilted his head back against the seat. He sometimes forgot about the split in Lucifer's tongue, but now that it prodded at his skin it refused to be ignored. His fingers scrabbled against Lucifer's jeans, and he sighed out a long breath, hitching his hips up as best his could.

Lucifer chuckled. He straightened his spine, catching Sam's eye, and stroked his cheek. "Naughty boy." He smirked, voice low. Sam raised his eyebrows with pursed lips. Lucifer snorted and returned to his ministrations, sneaking his hands (cold and dry and rough) up the back of Sam's shirt.

A sharp tap echoed through the car. Sam flinched and Lucifer straightened once more with a world-weary grumble. He turned his head toward the driver's side window. A police man stood outside. He made a rolling motion with his hand. Lucifer rolled his eyes, sliding back into his seat and rolling the window down. His rosary tinkled.

"What seems to be the problem, officer?"

The man made a rather sheepish expression. "I don't mean to interrupt, but you're just not supposed to be parked here, sir." He shrugged, red-faced, and glanced away. Removed his cap. "If you could just move along, it'd be appreciated. We like to keep the shoulder clear for anything short of an emergency." He paused. "There's a little B&B down a ways, though, where you can stay."

"No problem." Lucifer gave the officer a courteous nod. The other man returned to his patrol car while Lucifer started up the engine with a low growl in the back of his throat and a roll of his eyes. They lurched forward along hot black asphalt. Gravel crackled under the tires. Lucifer licked his lips, gaze fixed on the road ahead, and murmured (so quiet Sam almost couldn't hear above the hum of the radio), "The second we find that bed and breakfast, I am going to fuck so hard you can't stand for an hour after."

Sam blushed, mouth parting before he breathed, "Who's the naughty one, now?" He stared at the side of Lucifer's face.

Lucifer let out a harsh laugh, shaking his head, as they sped down the highway. "Touché, my toothsome darling."

"What the hell kind of endearment is that?" Sam snorted. "Makes me sound like a pastry."

Lucifer hummed thoughtfully. "Would you prefer... sexpot? Minx? Tall drink? Or maybe doll." He slid his fingers along the wine-colored steering wheel, ponderous and considering. Reached his hand out to brush his knuckles along Sam's cheek, without removing his eyes from the road. "My sweet, tender beauty."

"I barely know you..." But Sam moved closer, and Lucifer cupped his jaw, swiping his thumb across Sam's lower lip. The crucifix of his rosary dug cold into Sam's face. Lucifer got a kiss to his fingertip. Sam's breath gusted warm against the webbing between thumb and index finger, and Lucifer let a slow smile split his mouth.

"You're a good boy, and no less beautiful for being a partial stranger."

The burgeoning sunlight filled the interior of the Monte Carlo with warmth, highlighting the edges of Sam's profile all gold and bright, when Lucifer chanced a glance at him. Mussed, soft hair and a flushed face and parted lips, body half sunk into the passenger seat, with Lucifer's hand upon his face. Lucifer's tongue flicked out to dampen the edges of his own lips. Sam's eyes drifted shut, and he shifted so Lucifer's thumb slipped into his open mouth, grazing his teeth and just resting on the tip of his tongue. Lucifer pulled his hand away.

"That's enough." At Sam's soft whine, Lucifer chuckled. "I'd rather not get in a wreck because of your libido." He switched lanes.

Sam sighed. He sank down further in his seat, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. Lucifer ignored him, because he'd rather not be distracted by the long curve of Sam's throat, pale and mottled with day-old hickies and gaining new red blotches from just minutes earlier.

The Chevy's engine grumbled.

...

"Who's Dean?"

"What?" Sam frowned, looking over his shoulder at Lucifer, who sprawled across the bed in nothing but a green-gray t-shirt. (He never took his shirt off around Sam.)

Lucifer shrugged. "You said his name in the car, when you woke up, yesterday."

Sam chewed on his thumbnail and his gave a noncommittal shrug. "My brother." His jaw clenched, and loosened, and he made his way over to Lucifer. His expression warned against further questions, so Lucifer pulled him down into his arms and bit at his lip. Sam went lax against him. Lucifer sighed vanilla into his mouth and Sam wondered what it was that flavored his breath to such a flowery scent. The thought fled his mind, though, when Lucifer's forked tongue flickered against his lips and his hands slid down Sam's sides soft enough to tickle. And then clamped on his hips hard enough to bruise.

The blanket rustled beneath Sam's elbows, threadbare and soft with age and use. Lucifer reached up and tangled his fingers in Sam's hair and tugged 'til his scalp stung. Sam breathed in sharp through his nose. Lucifer bit his throat, rolling them so Sam lay flat on his back and Lucifer straddled his waist. He slid his hands flat up Sam's chest, until he could curl his fingers around Sam's shoulders. Sam wrapped his own fingers around Lucifer's wrists, licking his lips.

Lucifer kissed Sam until he let out a reedy moan.

Then he moved away, leaving Sam breathless and pink-faced, tangled in the blanket. Rolled smoothly to his feet, panther-like and pale. Little flecks of dust flickered in motes, as Lucifer swept the curtain aside to let in the full light of late morning. The room flooded in buttery sunlight, and it fell in swathes across the carpet, gilding Sam's skin and every other surface. Lucifer tied the curtain off. His rosary glittered with the movement of his right hand. He sat on the windowsill, shirt pressed to the warm glass at his back.

Sam glared at him. "You're a tease."

"You're lucky I'm not a murderer." Lucifer raised one eyebrow smoothly. "We only met a fortnight ago." He closed his eyes and tilted his head back until it bumped against the window.

Huffing, Sam sat up. "True." He pushed his hair back from his face and it lay the way he wanted it to almost instantly. He sighed. "So, are you gonna leave me hangin', or what?" His hand drifted to the waistband of his white boxer briefs. (Who the hell even wore white underwear, lately? Sam Winchester, that was who.)

"Well, now that you mention it..." Lucifer trailed off with a suggestive smirk.

Sam snorted. "You want to watch me jerk off." It was definitely not a question.

Lucifer smiled wider. "Of course." He tapped his fingertip against his mouth. "You're so pretty when you make those little kitten noises."

That certainly got Sam's attention. He blushed, ducking his head. "I don't make kitten noises."

"You most certainly do." Lucifer pushed away from the windowsill and sauntered over to the bed. "You _mew_." He drew a hand up the inside of Sam's leg. "And you make this little scrunched up face where your eyebrows draw together and you can't keep your mouth closed or your eyes open." He shoved Sam back down into the sheets. "It's beautiful." He drew his nails lightly across the skin on the inside of Sam's thighs, free hand planted firmly on his flat stomach.

Reddening further, Sam glanced away. His eyes settled on a painting of a quaint little cottage by a stream hung on the wall by the window. Rather than respond to Lucifer's words he muttered, "You left the curtain open."

Lucifer chuckled. "Maybe someone will see us." His eyes glinted, cold and dark with lust.

Sam closed his eyes with a strangled sound in the back of his throat. "I hate you." But he grabbed Lucifer's wrist and pulled him closer, with one hand on the small of his back to tug him down so he could rub up against him. Lucifer sucked in a sharp breath, growling and snatching at Sam's thighs. Sam wrapped his legs around his waist.

Lucifer rolled his hips. Bit at Sam's neck almost hard enough to draw blood—and that made Sam gasp and scrabble at the fabric of Lucifer's t-shirt. Lucifer splayed his fingers over the skin of Sam's hips. He snarled (and it should have been ridiculous, or funny, but it sent a thrill up Sam's spine and goosebumps across his arms) and pressed his tongue into Sam's mouth and rocked against him.

A good old-fashioned grinding session, all partial nudity and rough fingertips.

Sam moaned, and the sound tightened and turned into a breathy mewl when Lucifer shoved his hand between them, and stroked them both along. Sam went over first, gasping and whimpering, and ruined his underwear. Half a second later Lucifer groaned into his mouth, and further ruined said underwear.

"Shit." Sam's chest heaved.

A chuckle escaped Lucifer's throat, and he rolled off of Sam. "What?" His smile was feline and sated, and his eyes half-lidded. He trailed a finger—a wet, cold finger—from the waistband of Sam's boxer-briefs clear up to the hollow at the base of his throat, drawing a shiver through his body. "Not good?"

Sam rolled his eyes at the not-so-serious question. "You know it was fine." He sat up, grimacing. "But I need to go..." He gestured at himself. "Clean off."

Lucifer watched him shuffle over to the bathroom with a pair of clean underpants in hand.

"Bring me a washcloth."

Sam flipped him off.

...

"You know... I've never seen the ocean." Lucifer flipped through a sheaf of postcards in a fairly abandoned gas station. They shone in the hot light through the windows, fingerprints from strangers covering their gloss. The display rack squeaked when he gave it a gentle spin.

Sam spared him a glance. "Yeah?"

Lucifer nodded. He turned away from the postcards. "Let's go to the ocean." His electric blue eyes glinted.

The station's ancient A/C groaned, and the freezers full of soda buzzed. Sam shot Lucifer an incredulous look, finally focusing his full attention on the other man rather than the shelves packed with chips. He crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows. He said, "You wanna go to the ocean, just like that?" He grabbed a pack of pretzels. Tossed it at Lucifer.

Lucifer caught it with a smirk. "I do." He trailed his fingers along a row of chocolate bars, before settling on a Charleston Chew. "It's not as though we have anyplace else to be."

Sam had to concede that point. "So we just keep going west until we hit the sea?"

Lucifer hummed in affirmation.

They finished up their little pit stop and piled back into the car with a bag full of snacks and a large water bottle to share between them. Lucifer let Sam drive and munched on his candy bar with a book pressed open against his lap. _Lolita_. The spine looked long-broken and the cover was worn—Sam imagined it had been read many times before. He listened to Lucifer chew and to the sound of pages rustling and to the gentle buzz from the radio. The silence stretched heavy and distracting. Sam swallowed, mouth suddenly feeling thick and muffled.

He blurted, "Do you have any music?"

At first, Lucifer seemed not to hear him, but then he folded down the edge of his page and set his book aside before leaning forward. He rummaged in the glove compartment and came away with a clear tape. It clicked when he slid it into the tape deck. A brief whirring noise filled the car, and Fiona Apple's smooth, low voice crackled over the speakers. She sang of Hell and truth. Sam followed the long curve of the road.

The sun spat out orange from behind a heavy-hanging cloud, bright tendrils of light occasionally stabbing out to blind Sam. He grabbed his sunglasses from the dashboard and shoved them on one-handed. The summer heat slunk through his bones and—not for the first time—he wished the Monte Carlo's air conditioning worked. But instead, the highway wind roared through the open windows and sent strands of Sam's hair flying wild, and pushed dust into his face.

The song shifted from "Sleep to Dream" to its follower.

Lucifer sang along quietly and Sam almost couldn't hear him.

But the words drifted just into his hearing, and when he glanced at Lucifer the other man had relaxed back into the seat—not buckled in, but Sam hadn't the patience to reprimand him—and his lips moved imperceptibly with the music, and his lowered eyelids fluttered like he wanted to open his eyes but couldn't quite manage it.

Sam wet his lips and looked away.

Lucifer's voice grew louder, slowly and steadily.

It matched the volume of the music finally. Strong and a little scratchy, but still impossibly smooth, it filled the car and Sam's brain. He matched Fiona pitch for pitch and breath for breath. Sam wondered how many times he'd listened to this tape. Wondered if maybe Lucifer had ever just put it on and sung to himself on a dark side road or a sunny driveway or a dust-covered highway. Lucifer's voice cracked on a note and Sam's mouth went dry. The second time left him thirsting. As if on reflex, he swerved into the next exit he saw and pulled over into an empty K-mart parking lot. Lucifer had just enough time to make a confused face before Sam was on top of him, tossing his sunglasses to the floor.

Then he laughed.

"Does my singing turn you on, Sam?" He gasped at the feel of Sam's teeth grazing his jawline, and chuckled darkly. He let himself be tugged roughly down across the bench seat and wrapped his arms around Sam's back with a hum.

Sam snatched at Lucifer's hands and pinned them just above his head. Pressed a bruising kiss to his mouth, and ground their hips together.

Lucifer moaned.

"Jesus Christ."

The vinyl upholstery creaked.

Lucifer tangled his fingers in Sam's long hair the second Sam's hands left his wrists. The beads of his rosary caught at a few stray strands but Sam didn't notice—just dragged his nails up Lucifer's sides, under his shirt, and nipped at his jaw.

Panting, Lucifer savored Sam's weight on top of him.

He blinked in shock when Sam wedged his hand down the back of his jeans to grope and prod.

"I thought—" Lucifer drew in a ragged breath, squirming at Sam's insistent touch. "I never—" He couldn't find the words to finish his sentences.

He settled for a frustrated growl, instead.

Sam leaned briefly into the back seat and rummaged around through the bags. Lucifer couldn't see what he came up with, because he found himself being attacked with kisses once more. But he had a pretty good idea of what Sam had fetched when the slightly taller man reached down and undid Lucifer's jeans and tugged them down to his knees. Getting them the rest of the way off would be too difficult so he left them like that.

Finally, Lucifer managed a full sentence. "I never pegged you for public sex, doll." He licked his lips.

Sam grinned crookedly, reaching his hand down between Lucifer's legs. "Well, there's no point in pegging when you've already got a dick."

Lucifer choked on a half-laugh, half-groan. "Who _are_ you?" He squirmed against Sam's fingers.

"The same person I was yesterday." Sam worked quickly but thoroughly. "Just hornier."

Lucifer swore and craned his neck to watch Sam tug his own jeans down with his free hand. Then he swore again but with much more desperation, as Sam pulled away, leaving Lucifer feeling like an exposed wire.

"Turn over."

The expression on Sam's face was dark and amused and eager. Lucifer contemplated not doing as he'd been told, but decided he'd rather get fucked as soon as possible. So he shifted around onto his elbows and knees. Sam shuffled about, doing only God knew what, and just as Lucifer was getting ready to snap at him to hurry up he slid in and pressed flush against him, skin to skin and ribs to scapulae. He slid his slim hands underneath Lucifer's t-shirt, still with his breath coming in slow, deliberate gusts against Lucifer's neck.

A shudder danced up Lucifer's spine. He strained back against Sam with a sigh and a soft moan. Sam pressed him down into the seat, setting a slow rolling pace with one arm braced against the white vinyl beside Lucifer's head and the other caught between the seat and his chest, as he lay atop him. He pressed his mouth to the back of Lucifer's neck.

"Shit," Lucifer reached to twine their fingers together, rosary beads winding along their knuckles. " _Shit_." Sam's left palm slid hot against his collarbone, and the warmth between them caused sweat to bead along Lucifer's skin, dampening his t-shirt and making it stick to his spine.

Sam's hand drew lower as he thrust, but not enough to be anything more than teasing. When Lucifer snarled into the seat, he let out a breathy laugh and fastened his teeth into the skin at the back of Lucifer's neck, and relented, giving Lucifer a slow—almost painful—stroke with a shift of his wrist. Lucifer sucked in a hissing breath between his teeth. Sam repeated the motion.

A well placed bite to the meat of his shoulder was enough to tip Lucifer over the edge and he bit back a moan when he came. (All over Sam's fingers.) Sam whined in the back of his throat, teeth still lightly grazing Lucifer's skin, and shoved his hips almost feebly down, before he followed after Lucifer with a whimper. They collapsed, sticky and breathing fast, on the seat. Lucifer elbowed Sam until he sat up and settled back into the driver's seat.

He let out a laugh, with Fiona Apple still singing in the background.

Lucifer jabbed him in the side with his foot. "You're a fiend."

Sam smirked, as he cast around for something to clean them up with. "You appreciated it." His eyes lit on one of Lucifer's rattier t-shirts, already in need of a washing, and he wiped himself down before tossing the wad of fabric onto Lucifer's back.

"Okay, maybe I did." Lucifer pushed himself into a sitting position, grimacing. He dragged the thin cloth across his skin. "But you're still a fiend." He tugged his pants back up. Dragged his now-soiled shirt along his sweat-damp throat.

Sam laughed again and put the car into gear.

...

Lying side-by-side with Lucifer on a too-soft hotel bed, Sam reached for the other man's face. He trailed his fingertips along the raised scars across Lucifer's forehead and cheek bones. Lucifer caught his wrist in one hand and pulled until Sam settled his palm on his clothed chest instead. Stared at him with hooded eyes. Sam shifted closer, kissing him.

"What are those scars from?"

Lucifer bit Sam's mouth in answer. "You ask too many questions."

"That was the only question I asked." Sam pulled away and rolled onto his back.

Lucifer chuckled low in his throat. "And it was one too many." He prowled after Sam, so he could lie on top of him, pressed together from stomach to toes. "After all, I can't tell you _all_ my dark secrets. I like to keep some level of mystery." He rested his forehead against Sam's. Sam raised his eyebrows but smiled at him.

"Fine." He lifted his hands. "Be that way." Fastened his fingers in Lucifer's short hair, tugging him closer until their lips met.

Lucifer smirked against his mouth.

...

The bar they entered was dark and smoky and packed. Slender young men and a few women writhed in its poorly-lit depths. It was the kind of bar a rich kid's parents would never let them set foot inside. It was also a gay bar, but that was more of a secondary fact. Throbbing music and sweaty bodies and worn clothing made up its interior. Darkness and grit. It felt sexual and heavy.

Sam had let Lucifer dress him to go out—Lucifer told him that plaid did not make good clubbing attire, and he needed something completely different. So he found himself in one of Lucifer's t-shirts—too-small and dark red—and his tightest pair of jeans (which still wasn't very tight) and his blackest boots. That was it. No jacket, or anything else. Not even a belt. He felt half-naked. The waistband of his underwear peeked over the edge of his pants. Lucifer pretty much looked the same—only his jeans were dark, acid-washed gray and his shirt was black, and he _did_ wear a belt. (With a dark silvery buckle of a rattlesnake on a red enamel background.  Somehow he made it look good.)

As always, his rosary rattled around his wrist.

Lucifer led Sam to the bar. It was long and black and lit underneath with black lights that set their surroundings glowing. He ordered for both of them—a gin and tonic, with actual tonic water rather than soda water. The drinks lit up blue in the dark, and Lucifer shot Sam a fluorescent grin—he whitened his teeth on a regular basis—before downing half of his glass in one go.

Sam grimaced at the taste, but followed suit.

They both imbibed quite a lot more than Sam had originally planned. Lucifer plied him with shots and vodka and gin, and dumped various drinks ranging from screwdrivers to cherry schnapps down his own throat. Sam found himself laughing at even the stupidest jokes, grinning at anyone who so much as brushed past him.

With a vanilla lemon drop in hand—his favorite drink—Lucifer pulled Sam away from the bar and toward the masses of intoxicated people. He licked his lips. Passed his drink off to a random man and swayed his hips. His mouth moved with the lyrics of the music but Sam couldn't hear a damn thing in the thunderous heat of the dance floor.

Even if he could hear, all of his attention had been poured into watching Lucifer move like a serpent in the smoke and shadows, beads flashing on his wrist as he wove his hands over his head and turned liquid and seductive.

This was every bit the man Sam had first met—all sex and darkness swirled together.

Sam's own "dancing" consisted mostly of awkward shuffling and attempts to sink into the wall so no one could see him. Lucifer wouldn't let him do that, though. He twined his arms around Sam's shoulders, tugging him back out into the center of the dance floor, with a tall, dark stranger at his back. He shimmied and twisted between the two of them. His lips moved the whole time—he continued to sing even while he sucked bruises into Sam's throat or when the stranger bit the juncture of his neck and shoulder and groped him.

Most of the night passed in a blur of black light and bass beats, but Sam remembered Lucifer singing karaoke to Lana Del Rey while he caressed the microphone. He remembered walking back to the motel room in the sticky night with that first stranger in tow and watching the man take Lucifer apart in their bed. He remembered being pressed between them both, tangled in the sheets, and he remembered the two of them pinning Lucifer down and fucking him.

He woke in the morning with the taste of death in his mouth, a chill at his back, and a crushing headache. Lucifer lay plastered along his spine—the other man had left long ago, Sam assumed. The clock read one. The sun said afternoon, as it pierced through the curtains. Sam groaned. His entire body was sore, and he felt absolutely disgusting. He needed a shower to sluice away all the dried sweat caked onto his skin.

Lucifer mumbled and tightened his arms when Sam tried to roll out of the bed.

Sam pried his blunt fingers off of his ribcage, and pulled the blanket up over his shoulders as he slid out of bed. He made a soft shushing noise and kissed Lucifer's face before making his way to the bathroom. He turned the shower cool enough to raise goosebumps up his arms and reveled in its drumming rhythm on his shoulders. Let it soak his face as he washed his hair. Even rinsed his mouth out a little—it tasted beyond awful. He didn't bother getting dressed. Just dried himself and brushed his teeth twice and then sauntered lazily back into the room.

During Sam's shower, Lucifer had shoved all of the blankets off, and lay sprawled on his stomach in nothing but his black t-shirt and white rosary. He eyed Sam, with his cheek against his pillow, somehow managing to look both content and completely grumpy. He watched Sam go about his business for a few seconds before he buried his face in his pillow with a grunt. Sam sat beside him on the bed.

"Tired?" He lay down.

With a muffled laugh, Lucifer flipped Sam off. He squirmed onto his back, shirt hiked up to his ribs, and rubbed his hands over his eyes. "Did you double-team me last night?" He sat up.

"What?" Sam snorted. "You mean like double-penetration? Because no."

Lucifer grimaced. "That's not what I meant, but _good_." He glared at Sam, crossing his arms. "I might have had to punch you in the nuts if you tried DP." He threw himself back down with a wince. "My head is killing me."

Sam shook his head. "Me too." He let out a heavy sigh and propped himself up against a pillow. "Wait. What did you mean by double-team, then?"

"God, are you really that innocent?" Lucifer shifted closer, until their hips brushed. He cleared his throat. "According to Urban Dictionary, which I have made it my task to memorize," He closed his eyes. "Double teaming is 'when two dominant guys fuck one guy in different holes, e.g. the mouth and anus, at the same time.'" He snorted. "A rather crude definition, but functional."

"Oh." Sam blushed. "Then, to answer your question... Yes." He chewed on his lip, and broke out into an embarrassed smile. "But don't worry, I'm pretty sure you guys did the same thing to me."

Lucifer laughed and slung an arm over Sam's waist. He raised his eyebrows with a lazy blink. "Sounds delicious." He pulled himself up to kiss Sam, and sank back into the sheets. Sam slunk down with him. Their limbs tangled together, cool against warm. Sam marveled at Lucifer's tendency to stay so cold, even in ninety degree weather.

...

" _Fuck_ me." Lucifer kicked the door open and stumbled out onto the blazing asphalt. It had to have been at least 100 degrees. He drew in a long drag of the exhaust-filled summer air and planted his hands on his hips. Black smoke poured from the hood of the Monte Carlo, greasy and thick and foul-smelling. Sam shoved his way out of the car as well, and joined Lucifer on the side of the road.

The road stretched on.

Just their luck, to have the Chevy break down once they got too far from civilization to walk anywhere. Sam wiped sweat from his neck—his hair was up in a tight little bun to give him at least some relief from the heat. Beside him, Lucifer sat down on the blacktop, just behind the rear end of the car. He grumbled to himself. Sam shook his head.

He ducked into the backseat briefly, to tug out a bottle of water.

They waited.

After nearly three hours, Sam spotted the haze of some vehicle on the horizon. He waved his arms, careful not to step out too far into the road. A red pickup truck rolled to a halt just past them, and a man and two women stepped out.

"You look like you could use some help, there." The older woman stuck her hand out for Sam to shake. "Name's Ellen Harvelle. These two're my daughter Jo and my son Ash."

Lucifer took her hand next. "Nice to meet you, Ms. Harvelle. My name is... Michael. Michael Slasher." He shot Sam a dark glance, still smiling falsely. "My friend here is Samuel Eskil." Sam grinned at the Harvelle family.

The names Lucifer had given them were the same names he put down on hotel slips and coffee orders and diner receipts. Fake names—aliases.

"Well, Mr. Slasher,"  Ellen planted his hands on her waist and eyed the Monte Carlo with an appraising glint in her eyes. She hummed. "How about we give you a ride to the next town, and you can call someone to get your car towed?"

Lucifer thought for a moment. He glanced at Sam with raised eyebrows. Sam shrugged. "Sure, why not?"

So they climbed into the searing bed of a pickup truck.

...

Lucifer paid to fix his car with a credit card labeled with his alias. Or maybe it was his real name. Sam wondered if, perhaps, "Lucifer" was a nickname. It had to be a nickname. Who, after all, would name their child after the first fallen angel? Assholes, probably. Michael, on the other hand, would make sense.

When Sam climbed into the passenger seat, the engine started smoother than anything at Lucifer's touch. He'd never heard it run so good. It practically purred. Lucifer palmed the gearshift and they pealed out onto the main road out of town with the windows down and the radio blasting some top forty station.

Florence + the Machine wailed from the speakers, as Lucifer urged his white Chevy forward. The scenery sped by in a streak of gold brush and blue sky. Sam pumped his window down and let the wind whip his hair around his face, leaning into it with closed eyes. Something about the dry bite of it cooling his sweat soothed him.

Lucifer belted out the lyrics louder than the radio, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

Sam grinned into the breeze.

...

"I thought we were going to the ocean." Sam flicked through the little laminated foldable atlas, sitting on the hotel bed. He plopped down on his back, feet still planted firmly on the floor, and glanced over at Lucifer, who stood in front of the window.

Lucifer looked over his shoulder. "We are," He let the curtain fall back into place. "But I want to go a little more north, first. To Oregon." He kicked his boots off and tugged his belt free. Dropped it to the ground, and the buckle clattered. Off with the socks, then, and his jeans. Until he stood in just his boxers and t-shirt.

Sam raised his eyebrows. "You know, you can take your shirt off if you need to." He folded up his laminated map and tossed it at his bag, a few feet away on the floor. "Like, if it's about the scars or something, I promise I won't be bothered by them. You know I don't think your scars are ugly."

Lucifer shook his head. "It's not that."

"Self-conscious?"

"You could say so." Lucifer stretched his arms up over his head, making a soft noise in the back of his throat. "But you'd be wrong again." He smirked.

Sam held out his arms. He said nothing, as Lucifer came closer and slid into his arms. He pulled them both further up the bed so they could curl into each other, legs twined and arms interlaced, foreheads pressed together and eyes closed. Lucifer grinned. He flicked his tongue out and the two tips brushed against Sam's lips. Sam's mouth twitched up at the corners, but he kept his eyes closed, and didn't move.

He let Lucifer kiss his lips apart, until the other man slid his split tongue between his teeth and dragged a hand up his chest. Sam wrapped his arms around Lucifer's middle, rolling onto his back. Lucifer nudged his denim-wrapped legs apart with a predatory smirk. Covered Sam's mouth with his own once more. Sam gathered the material of Lucifer's shirt up in loose fistfuls.

Lucifer ran his hands all over Sam's body—under his wifebeater, across his ribs and abs and chest, down his arms and up his legs. Tugged his jeans off an inch at a time and trailed kisses up the insides of his thighs.

A knock came at the door.

Lucifer swore, resting his head briefly against Sam's stomach. Pretended he hadn't heard it, and returned to swiping his tongue up Sam's side, across his (ticklish) ribcage, while Sam held back a whimper. But the knock sounded again. Lucifer slithered to his feet, mouthing, "Don't move." He opened the door just a crack, shoulders stiff and posture straight—he loomed.

A quiet, heavily accented voice carried from the hall. Something about room service. Lucifer replied in a smooth roll of Italian. A timid response. Then Lucifer mumbled, "Grazie, signorina. Salve." And he shut the door. Turned to face Sam, arms crossed. "She wanted to clean. I told her to wait."

"You speak Italian?"

A laugh rumbled from Lucifer,  as he made his way back to the bed. He climbed atop Sam with a sharp smile. "I speak Greek and French, too." He pushed Sam's tank top up as far as he could without removing it and leaned his palms against his bared chest. Straddled his waist fully. "And I know a bit of ASL." He winked.

Sam laughed, and broke off into a breathless moan when Lucifer reached down to grope him with a thoughtful, teasing expression. Sam would have glared, but the cold fingers on his skin sent him sighing Lucifer's name, limp-limbed against the sheets, with his head craned back.

Lucifer smiled down on him.

...

The sun set red on another day, highlighting the Monte Carlo the color of roses with its dying light. In the passenger seat, Sam slept, loose and soft. The movie soundtrack from _Once_ hummed gently from the speakers, with the volume down low so as not to wake Sam. Luce breathed the lyrics. A breeze drifted through the barely open windows, as he kept below forty miles per hour. It was a narrow side road, with gravel and dust coating it.

The headlights swirled over the cracked blacktop.

By the time the sky went black, clouds obscured the few visible stars. A few drops of rain dotted the windshield and the ground, slowly building up until the road began to darken and Lucifer had to engage the wipers. They squeaked across the glass persistently. Once, and twice, and thrice, with that scraping whine, sluicing water off to the sides of the window.

Sam breathed deeply as he slept.

As an intersection grew nearer, Lucifer heard the dull rumble of another car. Something big, probably. Like a truck. He kept his speed, and tilted his head to try and see it. He saw no headlights, and the rain, as it grew thicker, limited his visibility. It sounded far enough.

But in the blackness before moonrise, something glinted. Before Lucifer realized what was happening, a big black truck barreled into the side of the Monte Carlo, sending it scraping down the road with the sound of squealing tires and screeching metal. They skidded to a stop hundreds of feet away. Lucifer's thoughts ran a sluggish path through his brain, as he looked over to see Sam slumped over with blood dripping from the side of his face where he'd been grazed by a shard of glass.

He stared at Sam.

Sam continued to breathe, head propped against his window.

Before his vision went black, Lucifer mumbled, "Thank God."

...

Lucifer came to feeling stifled and muzzy. An incessant beeping noise plagued his ears and he felt strangely stiff and tight all over. Strange, and worn out. He cracked his eyes open to see Sam sitting in a chair, asleep with a bandage on his face. Lucifer looked down at himself. He lay in a pristine bed, all metal and stiff white sheets. An IV sprouted from his hand, and when he tried to move a little pang went through his ribs, though it was a muffled pain. He reached his other hand up—heavy like a stone—and felt around his head. Bandaging. The arm with an IV in it had a brace on the wrist.

He sank further into his pillows with a groan.

The next time he woke, the room stood dark and empty, and his head hurt.

The third time, Sam perched on the edge of the bed with Lucifer's old, worn copy of _Lolita_ in his hands. He looked up when Lucifer croaked his name, forehead crinkled with worry, and smiled softly. He set the book aside, moving closer, to take Lucifer's hand in his.

"Hey," He ran his thumb over Lucifer's palm. "How are you?"

Lucifer squinted down at their joined hands. "I feel like shit. Where's my rosary?"

Sam snorted, and stuck his hand in his pocket. He pulled out the beads—as pristine a cream as usual, glistening dully in the fluorescent lighting of the hospital room. He set them in Lucifer's upturned palm, closing his fingers over them with a smile.

"Thank you..." Lucifer brought the coiled beads to his lips. They felt warm on his cold skin, after being in Sam's pocket. "It was my brother's." He never would have said that in any other circumstances, but his brain was addled with exhaustion and painkillers.

Sam shook his head. "Is your brother named Michael?"

Lucifer felt like he'd had all the breath slapped out of him. "What?" His heart seemed, to him, to stutter, but the machine kept beeping normally. (If a little accelerated.)

"Uh..." Sam glanced at the heart monitor with a soft frown, eyebrows pulling together. "Just—I... saw your tattoo. And you use that name as your alias." He looked down. Folded his hands in his lap. "Sorry." His entire body slumped in contrition.

Sighing, Lucifer licked his lips. "You saw."

Sam nodded.

Lucifer pulled at the neck of his patient scrubs, glancing down his shirt. Wondered when, exactly, Sam had seen the name stamped across his chest. Definitely while he'd been unconscious—maybe when they cleaned him or changed the bandages on his ribcage or something.

He closed his eyes.

"Michael was my older brother by a year."

Sam shifted where he sat and pushed his hair out of his eyes. "Was?"

"Was."

Lucifer settled a little lower in his hospital bed. He blinked thoughtfully, with a lip caught between his teeth for a moment. Finally continued speaking, voice low and hoarse. "This was not my first car accident." He twined the beads of his rosary between his fingers. Ignored Sam's surprise. "When I was eighteen years old, and Michael was nineteen, I convinced him and our little brother Gabriel to sneak out with me." His jaw tightened. He let a bitter smile stretch his mouth. "I was driving, then, too."

Sam reached out to take his hand. He wanted to say something, but could think of nothing.

"It was icy."

Sam squeezed his fingers.

"All I got was... This." Lucifer untangled their hands and gestured loosely to the scars on his face, and to his covered chest. "These scars. And broken ribs, just like now. And what did _they_ get?" He took a deep breath. "The nurse said Michael died instantly. Painlessly." A small laugh dropped from his mouth. "I think she lied to me." He shook his head and let his eyes shut tight. "Little Gabriel's thirty-five now and he's been in a wheel-chair for twenty years. Hasn't spoken to me in as long. I'm a little relieved, to be honest. I don't think I'd be able to face him. I ran away, after that accident. The second I could get out of the hospital, I ran."

He fell silent.

The lights on the ceiling buzzed.

Sam whispered, "Have you told anyone before now?"

Lucifer shook his head, fiddling with his brother's rosary. "All I told the tattoo artist, when she covered up my chest, was that I'd been in a wreck." His throat bobbed. "She didn't ask for details."

The only thing Sam could think to do was to lay his hand along Lucifer's arm.

...

When Lucifer was out of the hospital—after he gave them insurance information Sam hadn't known existed—the two of them took the bus to a much nicer hotel than usual. A Hyatt, with shiny glass all around and a spacious bathroom, and a large bed with soft sheets. Even the carpet was plush under Sam's bare feet as he slid out of his clothes.

He pulled himself up onto the bed. Trailed his fingers up the stiff fabric of Lucifer's jeans until his fingers caught at the hem of his shirt. "May I...?" He sought out Lucifer's eyes, and waited for either denial or permission. Lucifer nodded.

Sam tugged Lucifer's t-shirt off, careful not to jostle his sprained wrist, and dropped it to the floor. Then he sat back on his ankles and just looked.

Heavy gothic lettering curved just under Lucifer's collarbone. It obscured a long, knotted scar—something had dragged a gash along his skin, all those years ago. Probably twisted metal or broken glass. The word was just "Michael," plain and simple. Not even a date or a cross adorned it. Only solid black type.

Sam let his fingers drift along the edges, before pressing his palm just over Lucifer's heart. He leaned close and slotted their mouths together with no intention other than to be in contact with the other man. Lowered himself down so he covered Lucifer's body with his own, careful not to rest too much weight on his healing ribcage.

He kissed all the skin he could reach.

They spent the night with soft caresses and slow movements. It was a lot different than usual. To be fair, part of it was due to the fact that Lucifer was still somewhat weakened from his injuries, but part of it was due to Sam's desire to show him the kind of love he might not have received in a very long time.

Sam's attentions allowed Lucifer to relax in such a way that he could melt into the covers, eyes half-closed, hands loose at his sides, legs hanging around Sam's waist with his lower back supported by a pillow and Sam's hands drifting gently along his thighs.

He didn’t know sex could be like that. Usually he went the rough and wild route—hell, he was an animal, and  Sam was too.

But he thought he could get used to the way Sam touched him that night.

...

They bought train tickets in the morning.

Lucifer took some mild pain medication before the trip and slept with a small complimentary pillow wedged between his shoulder and the window. Sam continued to forge his way through _Lolita_. He'd never had a chance to read the book, and had discovered that while the writing style was beautiful, the unreliable narrator—Humbert Humbert? What a funny name—was extremely creepy. He felt bad for little Dolores Haze.

Every once in a while the whistle sounded, and startled him out of his thoughts.

When the train curved to the right, Sam couldn't help but lean into Lucifer a little bit as gravity pressed him down.

Near the end of the trip, they passed over what Sam suspected might have been the Willamette River on a big steel bridge, and it felt a little like flying. The water glittered in the sun, and Sam set his book down to watch the train's surroundings. It was a lot different from driving. More spacious, for one. And for another, the kinds of places he saw were very different from roadside diners and pit stops. He saw stretches of creeks and the sides of mountains and the insides of hills and swathes of thick trees. Blue flowers edged the track in some places, and in others it was just a lot of asphalt and gravel.

Lucifer woke by the time they needed to get out of the train. Sam carried his sparse baggage, trailing just behind him to make sure he wouldn't get lost in the crowd. They managed to book a ticket from PDX to Cannon Beach, at the last minute, and scrambled onto the Greyhound bus. Sam wondered if there would be any hotels with rooms available at the last moment in such a small town. It had been much easier when they could just sleep in the Monte Carlo at a rest stop or in a parking lot, when the motels and hotels were full. But without a car that was impossible.

They lucked out, though, and managed to book a hotel that nearly sat on the beach itself.

Lucifer wanted to explore but he was exhausted. The sun was setting, and they both desperately needed dinner. So they left the resort briefly, to find food, and once they had done that they returned and went straight to bed, with the sound of the ocean mumbling through the open window. (At first Lucifer found it hard to sleep with the noise of the waves, but eventually it began to soothe him and he drifted off, pressed up against Sam's back, feeling calm.)

Sam woke early in the morning, and gently pried Lucifer's arms off of his waist. He took a long shower, and left the room to see if he could find something for breakfast. Returned just as Lucifer awoke with some bagels and orange juice.

They sat in bed while they ate, leaning against each other.

"Do you have a bathing suit?" Sam frowned, as he chewed on his bagel.

Lucifer paused. He laughed. "No."

"Me either."

Lucifer glanced at Sam's cargo shorts. "That works well enough." He shoved some stray crumbs into his mouth and rolled out of bed. Stretched, and winced. "I've got some old shorts that'll work, I think." He rummaged through his bag. Pulled out a frayed pair of off-white shorts that, when he pulled them on, reached just over his knees. He dragged a clean white t-shirt on and forewent any kind of footwear. Sam followed suit, straightening his navy-colored wifebeater as he followed Lucifer barefoot out of the room.

It was warm on the beach, and a little windy. But not too much so.

A few puffins hopped around in the sand or bobbed on the waves, coming and going as they pleased. Children screamed, and some people lay on towels or blankets. A tall boulder known as Haystack Rock, according to the guide Sam had grabbed on his way out of the resort, jutted from the choppy waters. He shoved the guide into his pocket and ran out down the beach.

Lucifer trailed behind him rather reluctantly. He'd left the rosary and his wrist-brace behind in the hotel room, so he felt more bare than usual. Until Sam took him by the hand and pulled him down into the sand with a boisterous laugh. Lucifer chuckled. Let Sam wrap him around in warm arms, and ignored the sand most definitely getting into his shorts.

They lay like that on the beach for a while, curled up in the sunlight. But eventually Sam tugged his tank top off and tossed it to the ground beside Lucifer. He rolled to his feet and got several whistles from a group of girls nearby. He waved at them with a grin and ran off to the water. Lucifer watched him wade into the sea. He sighed. Plucked at the sleeve of his t-shirt and tried to ignore Sam calling his name.

But he gave in after less than two minutes. He heaved himself to his feet—kept his shirt on—and ran to meet Sam in the surf.

The water was cool and sticky against his skin, as Sam splashed him. His t-shirt clung to his waist, and he knew that very soon it would be pointless to continue wearing it. He kept it on anyway. Ignored his tattoos' growing visibility in the sunlight. Sam dunked him, and Lucifer swatted the back of Sam's head with a scowl. Sam just laughed.

When Lucifer walked up onto the beach he could feel Sam's eyes on him.

Knew that his shirt had gotten wet enough to become all but see-through.

Sam trotted up behind him, with a gentle smile. "Luce," he murmured, twining his arms around Lucifer's waist. "What are the bones on your back?"

By bones, he meant the wing structures stemming from Lucifer's shoulder blades.

"Those are the wing bones of a rock dove." Lucifer turned in Sam's grip and pressed his mouth to the taller man's neck. "They remind me not to try and fly."

Sam trailed kisses from the top of Lucifer's head to the edge of his jaw. Stroked slender fingers back through his damp hair. "You don't need wings to fly." He pushed their mouths together, softly. "You just need someone to catch you when you stop."

Lucifer chuckled. "Really?"

"Really."

Someone let out a whoop, as they kissed.

Lucifer saluted them with his middle finger.

(end)


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who wants familial angst?  
> Me.

Lucifer held the phone in his hand—an honest-to-God cellphone—as he lay in their bed (Their bed! When had he become so trusting? When had he finally stopped moving around to settle down? Sure it was just a shitty apartment but he hadn't lived in one place since he was a foolish teenager.) Its screen glowed at him, with an all-too-familiar number spread across it. He turned his head, looking at Sam.

"Do I have to? I haven't spoken to them in... forever."

Sam rolled his eyes. "You'll regret it if you don't." He pulled Lucifer close with a kiss to his temple. Let his hands wander over his chest piece. "Trust me. I know."

Sighing, Lucifer pressed the talk button and held his phone to his ear. It buzzed. He wondered if maybe they had gotten a different phone number. Perhaps they had moved or bought a new phone entirely or gotten rid of the landline and switched to iPods. But the voice that answered the phone was too familiar to be anyone else.

"Hello?" A female voice. Low and curious.

Lucifer's eyes squeezed shut. He couldn't do this, there was no way he could—

"Hello?" she repeated. "Who is this?"

His tongue flicked out as he wet his lips and breathed, "...Mom?"

Silence for several expanded seconds. Until finally, she spoke. "Nicholas?"

In that moment, Lucifer was glad of Sam's presence beside him, grounding him and tying him down. He felt like he was flying to pieces at a cellular level. Like he would crumble into ash if Sam didn't have one arm clamped firmly around his waist. He leaned into Sam.

"Hi, mom." He drew in a shaking breath. "Been a long time."

She sounded even more emotional than he felt. "Nicky, sweetie—" She didn't know what to say to her son so she fell silent.

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize."

"It was my fault."

His mother most definitely made a sound suspiciously like a sob, then. "It was a mistake, Nicky."

"No," He shook his head as though she could see him. "No, it was my fault. I convinced them to go out. I was driving. It was my fault."

He truly fell apart then, in Sam's arms. Felt like he had acid pouring out of him, and trembled as if frozen. But Sam's heat pressed into his skin and he leaned back against him and tried not to let his voice betray him. But that was, like many things, easier said than done.

"You're fine. Nicky, you don't need to apologize. We love you."

The next hour passed sluggishly and painfully, with words sliding back and forth through the phone—He spoke with his father for a small portion at the end, and that really sent him completely over the edge of what he could deal with. The firm but kind pattern of his father's voice made him wilt into the sheets, phone pushed tight against his ear, curled up with Sam wrapped around him.

He asked for his little brother's phone number.

They gave it to him and he hung up and took a long time to just breath, until his eyes dried.

"I hate you."

Sam kissed the back of his neck. "Shhh..." He ran his hand back through Lucifer's hair. Lucifer sighed and twisted around so they faced each other and shared air. He rotated the phone in his hands. With Sam's lips on his forehead, he dialed his brother's number. It rang once, before a man answered.

"Gabriel?"

"Yeah. Who the hell is this?"

Lucifer licked his lips. "It's Nick—"

Gabriel hung up.

Sam took the cellphone from Lucifer's fingers and set it on the nightstand. He rolled onto his back, pulling Lucifer along to lay on top of him, and rubbed his hand in soft circles against the dove bones inked into his back. Neither said a word. Instead, Sam hummed some love song from the radio until Lucifer's breathing grew slow and deep.

And finally he murmured, "Your name is Nick?"

Lucifer nodded.

Sam smiled. "I like that."

The phone buzzed where it lay, and when Lucifer folded it into his hands, the display read, "Baby brother." He answered with a softly nervous greeting.

On the other end, Gabriel said, "It's been twenty fucking years, Nicky."

Lucifer smiled, wiping at his eyes.

"I know."

(the end for real)

**Author's Note:**

> Boring cliche disclaimer about safe sex, condoms, lube, etc.: Don’t do sexual things while driving on a highway. Always use a condom especially during anal. Use only lube as lube, not like idk orange juice or gravel. Consent is the most important thing. A lack of "No" does not mean "Yes." Technically a "yes" while drunk does not legally constitute consent because the person is under the influence of mind-altering substances. Never leave your drink unattended. Don’t go home with random strangers if you can avoid it—you are more vulnerable in a strange place than somewhere you know, and it's dangerous to be alone. Crowds are important. It's best to book hotels ahead of time so you're not stranded blah blah blah idk why I bothered to write this out.


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